Dear Heloise: Sugar Ant Hell

I love those helpful hint columns. I always have. I may not be the girl who can tell you exactly what years the Civil War took place; but, by gum I can tell you that they used the first generation of duct tape to cover wounds.

I ignorantly laughed years ago when someone wrote:

"How do I get rid of sugar ants?" 

The columnist wrote: "MOVE!"

Sugar Ants are a bain to my existence. I go from hostility, to shame, to utter apathy. I've tried it all, except for the recent one about Borax....If I could ever remember to buy it, I'd try it. (Yes, it's on my list. I just can't remember to look at the list while I'm at the store.) I also have the name of a chemical that would kill my whole neighborhood if they lick my foundation. I never seem to make it to the Kill the World store to get that either. Honestly. I just squirt the ants with Clorox and wipe them away.

If you live nearby, you've heard me say, "If you're coming to see me, drop by anytime. If you're coming to see my house, every other Tuesday is the day." (If I'm really effusive, I'll add,  "for two to three hours after Laura leaves.")

The last two times I had weekend guests I made blanket claims about my sugar ant intruders and gave quick demonstrations for their extermination. I've also made disclaimers about the chaos in the house and the transitions, blah, blah. If Heloise graded my hostessing, she'd give me a D. Martha would fail me--that b--&%*. How I wish I was that punch people in the throat woman. And those poor grades are for the sugar ant problem alone. They could also add:

1. Setting the oven ablaze with the Paula Deen Get Diabetes and Hide it Bread.

2. Having to throw away the wool rug in the kitchen because a cat, angry at Sarah for not moving off his spot on the love seat, peed all over it. The kitchen reeked.

3. Opening up Bisquick that hadn't been used for well over a year to find weevils everywhere in the pantry.

4. Not fixing that handle on the microwave only to have someone else pull it off in her hand.

5. Not fixing that chair that wobbles only to have it break WHILE your dear friend was sitting in it!

6. Preparing all meals in advance. (A+, even from Martha.) Remembering at 4PM that you didn't put the crock in the slow cooker!

I could actually go on. You get the point. If I'm using helpful tips and certain cultural standards as my measuring stick for being a good hostess, I'm a big ol' failure. That's why I like to consider what I'm measuring and the best tool for that measurement.

If you were to ask any of my guests if they would return to my home, I'm pretty sure all of them would say, "Yes!" I even get people on a regular basis who will invite themselves over or do a drop in. I tell people to push stuff to the floor and come in.

I know how to laugh at myself. I also know how to be fully present in the moment with my guests. Sometimes that means the two pounds of butter in a dish may catch fire. It might also mean that I might forget to take the brisket out of the refrigerator. There is always flour to put out fires and chips and salsa for dinner.

If you love your guests, they'll come back. 

Linda, Sarah, Beth, and Keila will return. Linda is in charge of making sure the food gets in the oven. Sarah will keep us laughing in all circumstances. Beth is not allowed to open the microwave. Keila told me about Borax for my ants. Besides, when she had guests whom she'd never met in her home, she, with her guests, watched through the window as her husband beat an enormous rat to death with a broom. 

Forget Heloise. Be you and love people into your life.

Will someone please communicate to my sugar ants I feel NO love for them?

Be My Balentime

Valentines Day 2012 will be marked in my heart as a favorite. In fact, I think I can safely say that it's my best one ever.

Let me preface my story with a question I've been pondering daily for weeks now, "How do I know you love me God?"

Well versed in Bible head knowledge, I've got right responses ready to pull out of my convenient answer bag. That said, I believe the Bible is true and it says, "God loves me" over and over again. I read it regularly and am happy for the privilege of reading His inspired words. I trust His Word--mostly. On good days and sometimes on really bad days I believe. It's the middle days that strangle my faith.

And yet......ever the child looking for evidence and something tangible, I search in other places as well.

Our culture, and sadly, at some level, I too am caught up easily in the notion of romantic love. Valentine's Day can just stink if we measure our life based on romantic love alone.

Here's a snippet of a conversation I had with God last weekend.

L-Lord, I know what you say in the Bible, but I need you to show up and be God today. I'm just days shy of 47. I failed in my marriage. I'm lonely. I'm also really lazy and I don't want to do things I know you've asked me to do. I'm tired. I'm mad. And. I'm starving because I'm truly trying to lose the weight I gained trying to avoid life and pain. I know you love me, I'm just having a hard time seeing it today.

God-

L-also, if you could, would you let me feel it with my heart?

God-

L- and while you're at it, I'd like you to demonstrate your love physically as well.

God-

L-I'm ready and I'm waiting. Give me eyes to see it. If I can't see it, any kind of nudge will help.

God-

Valentine's morning I'd baked heart shaped muffins for Annie Beth and dropped her off at school. I got a call from Jenny asking if I could have lunch with them. I couldn't. I later received a text from her:
If you'll be home at 9:45 we're going to stop by.


Jenny, punctual as usual, knocked at the door at 9:45. The next few moments are freeze framed captions in my mind, yet they happened in a few seamless seconds. I opened the door and Jenny stepped to the side. I saw Brenner, 2 1/2 walking up the pathway. Dressed in red striped overalls donning his black felt fedora, he was grinning from ear to ear. His paced picked up and he trotted towards me. The bouquet of pink roses was sort of smushed against my legs as he hugged me with all his might. As if remembering he wasn't supposed to hug first, he pulled back and handed me the roses. Just as quickly as he placed them in my hands, his little right hand slipped into the back pocket of his engineer type overalls. As if by magic, out came a chocolate bar, that if seen from behind would have covered almost half his back. He, pleased with his efforts, walked into the house. Jenny, with a gentle reminder and a whisper in his ear said, "Brenner, what else?" At this point, I'm leaning down. I was almost eye level to him (Darn. I wish I would have kneeled the whole time.) He looked right into my now watery eyes and whispered, "Be my Balentime."

I'm weeping now as I write this etched memory.
It's a love story.

It's about a friend whom I've chosen as family. She's a younger sister who has walked alongside me both literally and figuratively for almost 10 years. We prayed fervently for another baby for her family. We were training to walk 60 miles in 3 days for breast cancer that year when conception and desire seemed like enemies. That November, Jenny would happily wave down a sweep van to take needed breaks from the 60 miles because she had just discovered she was pregnant. She was well into the pregnancy when I filed for divorce that Spring. I was there when Brenner was born on July 9, 2009. I will someday apologize to him that I was convinced he was a girl and took something pink for him to the hospital.

I can't explain this part at all, I just know that Brenner loves me. Even as an infant we had a special bond. He has a name especially for me. He calls me MiMi. I haven't a clue why. His grandmothers are Grammy and Nanny. He knows my name is Lori. Last summer he just started calling me MiMi. It thrills me! Regarding his love for me, it is possible that he loves me because I think everything he does is splendid and I believe in candy. And yet, I know it's more and I just receive his love as a gift. Which I, in turn, give back to him in ways that he can feel with his heart and his perfectly porcelain skin.

I'm demanding of God. I learned from studying the Psalms, in particular, that I'm one in a long line of others who just talk to God and sometimes, quite unwisely, ask God to show up and be God. And yet, when it comes to asking Him to demonstrate His love, He's never failed. I believe with all my being that He delights in responding to love demands.

This love story is nestled inside so many other love stories. Most importantly it's just another page in the story of God's love. He was responding to an earlier conversation with me. The astonishing part is that He used two more family members to demonstrate that love. He nudged Jenny's ever sensitive heart and said something like,


G -"Hey! Why don't you buy some flowers and candy and let Brenner give them to Lori?"

She listened and said,
J- "Sure. And I'll practice with Brenner and have him tell her something special."

Jenny didn't know about my private conversation with God. She just listened and responded to a prompting within her heart. And, I, with just a few years of experience in recognizing and knowing God's voice, His style, and His signature, knew in that split second that He was showing up in the form of a child to lavish me with enthusiastic touch, tangible, beautiful gifts, ending in a hushed child's voice, "Lori, I love you."

My response back to Him now is to tell a few others about how tenderly and perfectly God loves His children. He is who He says He is. He has a love story to tell and wants us to be a part of it. That's amazing.

Labyrinth

About 8 years ago, I had the unique opportunity to walk a labyrinth with other retreat participants. The retreat center just happened to have one and it was well done. It was almost identical to the one pictured above. I was befuddled when the retreat leader found it and was elated that we could walk it for our closing ceremony. I'd walked one alone some years back and I found it to be like going to the airport when there are no lines at the check-in desk. There are rows and rows of  rope to traverse before you even get to the person who will eventually tell you to, "Have a safe trip."  Crawling underneath a couple of those ropes is certainly more efficient, especially when you're in a hurry. It's useless to walk more steps than is necessary to get to the end goal. Based on that mentality, I found the labyrinth a big waste of my time. I can remember thinking, "What is the deal? I can't believe that this concept has been passed down for thousands of years."

I'm glad that there are people much smarter and wiser than I.

I hadn't thought about that labyrinth experience for such a long time. A couple of weeks ago I had the truly blessed chance to hang out with a friend who is in a very difficult life place right now. She is a woman of great courage whom I admire and love very much. There is an age gap between us. She was born while I was a college student. If my path had been different, it's possible that I could have a daughter her age. And yet, she has been a vital part of my life for the past two years. Without her work and diligence, my path today would be very different.

We bonded well from a professional standpoint. We chose to be friends. We both love books, we love to laugh, and we share common wounds and hurts from life's journey.

We hadn't seen each other in weeks and we had hours of catching up to do. While sitting side by side, both of us in socks and comfy clothes, we kept talking about such similar themes and patterns in our lives. The visual of walking the labyrinth with others kept popping into my mind. Here's my best memory of the event.

Our leader intentionally lined us up in birth order. The oldest woman went first. The youngest went last. My sister was just one woman ahead of me and another dear friend, years younger, was much farther down the line. None of us had any idea where the labyrinth ended, nor was the path visible when standing in front of it. We received no instructions other than to walk and follow the path.  (Oh, and remain silent. Always a challenge for this woman who has NEVER won the silent game.)

It seemed logical that as the participants made their way through the path, that it would get easier to see the end. Such was not the case. The more women that entered, the less obvious it was as to how far along the path they were. Even with Carol, my sister, ahead of me, I was so surprised as to how many times it felt like she was behind me. I was shocked at how often I saw her face, not just her back. Reluctant to admit how much Engineer is within my DNA and how competitive I am, I nevertheless, was looking for the end constantly. I finally discovered, because of others before me, that the end was actually in the center. Knowing this, I was taken aback when my much younger friend appeared to be at the finish line before me. How could this have happened?

I was convinced then (and now, in all honesty) that math would (will) be my final demise. I quickly concluded that this was a math puzzle. My young friend, Heather had figured out something I had not. And yet, within moments she was hidden from my sight line as I completed the labyrinth. At the time, the lesson of astonishment was that maybe a linear view of life was not realistic when measuring internal growth. Chronology may not be the best indicator of maturity. Maybe it's the experience of walking alongside someone? Seeing their back sometimes? Only to be surprised moments later that you're face to face in an unexpected turn in the road? Maybe the end isn't the most important part?

Here's what I've pieced together from this new image of the labyrinth memory that I know today. I have learned something new and different because of this friendship. She and I started out our journeys at vastly different times. We share some unhealthy life patterns. I've been practicing some better patterns for a tad longer. But at this juncture, we're working on the same issue. She may be discovering some things for the first time. I needed to revisit the familiar fury for remedial work.

What mattered most that weekend was that we were fellow travelers. My remedial work did not make me inferior to her. Nor did my few years of practicing make me superior. Walking together provides stability. Comfort. Hope. There's also an important place for humility. Shared humanity.

The goal of the labyrinth is learning. A maze has the intent to confuse and intentionally challenge. I prefer to look at life as a labyrinth. Sometimes I need to see my sister's face. Sometimes I need to see her back and know that if she walked that steep hill ahead, I can do it also. I know by experience, it is absolutely possible to crawl under obstacles at the airport and avoid what seems a trivial waste of time. I choose that example because there was that time a couple of years ago that I failed to take into account how low I'd have to dip my body AND my pink and green polka dotted suitcase. I was so happy that few were around to witness a huddled mass of pink, green, and flesh on the thinly carpeted area.

I'm that girl who rarely gets away with what seems like legitimate cheating.

And yet, by taking the path not intended I might miss something of value or make a giant fool of myself for my arrogance in knowing there must be a shortcut. I'm thankful that remedial work is always available. The sun rises every morning and I get a chance to make different choices.

There are times when we are surrounded by those who are closer to the end of the path. Pay attention and learn. It's very possible that the person whom we are looking at has revisited our issue several times and might have wisdom to offer for the current drama of our day. It is also quite likely that you may offer that person a treasure forgotten or one not collected on their journey.

I'm looking forward to time with an older friend this week. The age gap between us is exactly the gap between my daughter and me. I am blessed beyond measure with the wisdom of this friend. My ears and my heart are wide open.

Below Average and Above Average. Both are true.

On the Do-It -Yourselfer scale, I’d rate myself slightly below the average tool efficient male and about two standard deviations from a female contractor. Yes, I’ll willingly admit to a cultural gender bias. Perhaps also, if I’d discovered earlier in life my attention deficit issue, maybe I’d be less frustrated now--much less in the cumulative years of projects. Duct tape and glue guns are staples in my toolbox.

I go in cycles with my projects. Today I know why.

His furniture now gone, I have an empty room--ripe for wall paint and transformation. I can see the new dining room in my head, thanks in part to Pinterest. It’s gorgeous.

In my new room I want a sideboard. Because of the creativity of others (Pinterest), I realized I already had the perfect one in my garage. Our house, built in 1980, had the requisite wet bar in the living area. It was wasted space for us, so I had it ripped out and put out in the garage. It quickly became the storage place for the house overflow. Over the weekend, I spent hours unloading the accumulated stuff. That stuff is in the house. Again. In a non-permanent place. Arg. Some of the items will get stored in the pantry that will be built in the next few weeks. Other things will make the shift in the kitchen after it’s repainted. The rest of the stuff will be donated. I also took off the door robbed from the bar cabinet to cover a new opening made in the kitchen island. Now a have another dilemma. What do I use to cover that opening?

On Saturday night after I’d moved everything out of the sideboard, I got out my well worn electric sander. I may not be excellent at many things; but, I am an excellent sander. (Not sure who isn’t, but a girl’s got to feel competent, right?) I’m also excellent with scissors.

Sanding, by the way, is a therapeutic activity when you’re angry.

Years ago, I worked for an artist. She’d paint anything and make it spectacular. I base painted furniture for her. While I was waiting on coats to dry, I’d watch her paint. I learned enough that I could dabble at a few things and sell painted items at Giggles and Glamour craft shows. Susie taught me all the tricks to using her particular machine and was utterly gracious when my first items needed larger rosebuds or complete sanding for a redo. I worked at least 10-20 hours a week for her. That’s a lot of sanding and painting. I ended up buying a machine just like hers. It finally died a couple of years ago. I replaced it with a cordless painter. The first time I used it, I was awed with its performance. My inner paint snob wanted to take full credit for how skilled I was. Certainly, the machine was just partially responsible for the great end result. I held myself in high regard, until the second time I pulled out that blasted, new paint gun.

I ended up painting the project with a roller and a brush. Spilling the entire container of black paint on the uncovered part of the garage sealed the deal with brushes.

Fast forward to now. I want this sideboard to have the smooth, brushless finish that my black table and chairs had. Better equipped with self knowledge and how to make sure the paint bucket is firmly attached to the gun, I started early this morning with the goal of finishing the painting before bedtime. I didn’t even START painting until 12:20. So goes the world of power tools. It’s fact of Do-It-Yourself life that things break and projects take longer than you’d hoped. Part of the delay included time to email Ryobi to let them know how very disappointed I was with their lithium batteries and charger. Dad would have mailed the multiple copies of the letter to decision makers including the President, printed, and placed the a copy in his clearly labeled files. 

Battery dilemma solved I started painting. BLAST! It wasn't working well. School would be out in 30 minutes! The guy in the video didn't have blobs of paint flying out of his machine. When my language progresses to vulgarity, I require myself to stop. Even with a break for school pick up and some perspective, that wretched machine was still acting up! I quit for the day.

I was so disappointed with part one of the paint job. I, of course, had not tested the paint on a scrap of something or used both tips to see which I preferred. I wanted to finish. I also wanted something close to perfect. Hmmmmm……not good roommates, those two.

So, I’m sitting at volleyball practice realizing that there is far more chaos today than if I’d simply just left everything as is. I only love projects after they are successfully completed. I am impatient and careless and even when I’m trying my best, I can still manage to ruin something. My standards are often unattainable. 

But, I truly need to change things in this house to make it livable for myself. I want that room to reflect the change in my life. I get to choose about that stupid sideboard. I can slow down, do all the things I know I should do first, which may include wasting time and paint. Or I can be angry at some faceless man at Ryobi because both batteries were defective. I can snap at my daughter for expecting instant responses from me when I’ve got dripping paint on my supposed to be gorgeous sideboard! I can bark insults at people who can’t hear me, as I drive down the highway. I could probably find a legitimate reason to blame my ex for today’s frustrations.

However.

I’ll still have a poorly painted sideboard in the garage taking up the space that my car should occupy. I’ll still be the parent to a child I love more than I could ever have imagined loving. I can model rudeness and impatience to her as I yell at her for being impatient?! or while we drive to her practice. And truth be told, I could in one complicated thought actually find a reason to rationalize blaming my ex.  But then I'd be left with just an angry, frustrated me. And I'm left holding the bitterness and resentment. Rocks.

I'm chuckling right now because my mind immediately said to my heart, "ummmm, Lori you really have to thank him for helping you discover that you're actually good with power tools." Without intention, he helped me discover that I’m a competent, powerful woman who can assemble just about anything if given enough time.

Reassembling life at 46 10/12 isn’t easy. It’s chaotic. It’s getting even more chaotic as time progresses. The process requires losing what I didn't want to lose, getting rid of things I once loved, relocating some things that I know I need and am not sure where they’ll go quite yet. I’m tearing down walls and putting in new doors. I’m screwing up a lot. I spend many days wondering how I’m going to get from this place to the next. I’m tempted and often do sit around, scared to death. 

But.

I’m learning to be patient and gracious with myself. I’m still struggling with healthy outlets for anger and rage. I’m rediscovering that basic skills do matter and that there is great value in the daily, mundane tasks of living.

I also have a clear picture of the first dinner party I'll throw in my gorgeous dining room. Those guests will appreciate all the beauty of the night—beautiful surroundings, beautiful china, beautiful food, and most of all the beauty of sharing an evening knowing love was the motivation behind it all. 

In the meantime, I’ll find more things to sand, make up my bed each day, and know that even the people who will notice the flaws in my paintjob will laugh when I retell the story of how it happened and when I noticed that all the hairs in my nose were Sherwin Williams Extra White.

PS. I've already figured out what to do with the hole in my cabinetry. It will match the two barn doors that will be built to cover the new pantry and the old laundry room. Phase IV?

People I want to punch in the throat

Lindy introduced me to a new favorite blog, peopleIwanttopunchinthethroat.blogspot.com. I love this woman. She is completely irreverent. I laughed so hard when reading her thoughts about my personal nemesis, Elf on Shelf, I snorted several times. I also did a reverse snort, but that's gross. She was my hero for several days last week. I even thought seriously about trying to become her.

This is nothing new for me. I have a long fascination with women who are brash, brazen, and don't give a flying flip what others think about them. It seems so liberating to just say what you aren't allowed to say and just go about your business of the moment. No guilt. No shame. If consequences are unpleasant, a shaking off  of the dust and tally ho!

I also really savor Ann Voskamp's blog: onethousandgifts.com. She inspires me to think, and contemplate on a daily basis.

These two blogs were bumped up against one another on my dashboard today. It says a lot about me, I'm sure, even without deep introspective thoughts. I opened my reader because I was going to write. Instead I read for a while.

I've been grumpy today for valid reasons. I got home from a short trip to Kingwood and one of my cats had diarrhea. Gross is an understatement. The outdoor Christmas lights that promptly blew out when plugged into the outlet still didn't work and still needed to be removed, fuses replaced, and stored for next year. (Next year I'll do it differently.) My child had just called for the first time in days and I was greeted with, "Momma you forgot....and ruined...." And the grumpiest part of all? The motion he filed just before Christmas for a new trial did not disappear during the most wonderful time of the year.

I don't enjoy being a grouch. Maybe I would get an idea of something to be grateful about by reading the guru of grateful? I was reading Ann and thinking,

 "Ann, I kind of want to punch you in the throat. Do you ever take the low road?"

 "Why can't you be Sue Sylvester for just one day, Lori?"
  Low road only. Give voice to all your internal snarky remarks and let life happen.

Why not? Because I'm not the lady who can write a hilarious blog about a silly elf and the extremes soccer moms go to to outdo themselves during the busiest, craziest time of the year for a parent. She writes in a way that offends as many people as it makes laugh. That woman got hate mail! Which makes me love her all the more. Keep writing.

I'm also not Sue Sylvester or Joyce, my Heavenly editor, or Ann Voskamp, the Mother Theresa of blogland.

I'm Lori. I have tried being who others want me to be and have failed at that. Being the authentic me made it impossible for me to remain in deep relationship with many people including my spouse. The only person I'm good at being is me. And sometimes being me sucks. I've given up many patterns that numbed my emotional inner world and gave me the illusion that life was better. I still care way too much about what others think of me and for so many wrong reasons. If I could get away with more hurtful behavior, I must admit, I'd take the low road more. A lot more.

All that said, I still want to make this next year a year of counting blessings over bullet pointing lists of wrongs done to me. I want to listen to stories and the heart of others and choose compassion over judgment. I want to love instead of shift shame. I want to stay focused on hope and not wallow in despair.

I love to laugh but never at the expense of another person's soul. I'll instead, just continue walking and breathing and being me. I can't do that without God's faithfulness, mercy, and grace. And I have discovered that gratefulness transforms grumpy.

Part of today's list:
#427 Disposable rubber gloves and plenty of paper towels.
#428 Garbage service.
#429 Ladders and easily replaceable fuses.
#430 An increasing ability to not assign blame to myself for what I am not responsible.
#431 Knowing that God will be in the consequences no matter what my future holds.
#432 I am never alone.

Who am I?

I get in a funk around Christmas every year. Different reasons every year, but it's most often because of the ridiculous expectations that are the cultural mandate. In an effort to focus on what's most important to me this morning, I opened up www.biblegateway.com. I wanted to search for a scripture in Lamentations that I love so.

As I was scanning the page I noticed an advertisement for a book about Tim Tebow. I thought, "I don't really know who that man is!" The only way I know of his fame is through Facebook posts--which sadly is often my primary source of news and information. He's a football player, I think. He must know Jesus or his face wouldn't sell anything on this website.

It started the wheels in my head.

Tim Tebow will never know of Lori Clark either. Tim Tebow will never drive down Big Sky Drive. If he drove by yesterday, it's highly likely he heard the squealing sound coming from the air vent on the top of my house. It's doubtful that he'd have stopped to offer his assistance with a can of some non-squeal solution. (BTW, if I learned anything at all from my sweet Daddy, it's that WD 40 is a staple in life.) It's even more doubtful that he'd been impressed that I climbed on the ladder and fixed that annoying sound this morning.

Even with the fame of being a football hero with some moral character to boot, it's likely that my grandchildren will not know who Tim Tebow is or was. Here's what I'm holding on to this morning--a morning where bad news still stings and the untangling of life just got more complicated. The God of the universe knows Tim Tebow. He also knows Lori Vae Hudgins Clark. My inability to run and throw a ball at the same time does not disqualify me from being a part of God's team. He knows my name. And He loves me.

He knows my name and my address and was aware of that shrill sound from my rooftop. He didn't offer to jump down from on high to fix my rooftop whirly thing. He did equip me with a mind and a ladder, good sturdy shoes and legs that still move well enough to propel themselves, with help from my voice giving a hearty grunt, up to the roof.

He and I had a lovely chat while I viewed my neighborhood with a view I've seen just a few times. I thanked Him for doing the work in the person of Christ so that I have hope and a home and a future. As much as I try, I'll never pull myself up to Heaven. Instead He came as one of us to offer me what I could never attain--a relationship with the greatest man who ever lived. One, who for generations people will shout His name and offer Him glory and honor. How could I refuse such an offer? I just can't and won't.

I certainly would never intentionally cast God in such common terms in order to place myself on par with Him. I'm just so simple, it's easier to imagine Him in ways that make sense to this creature. I chuckle when I think that God has my name tattooed on the palm of His hand.

And then, I'm comforted so that I can accept His new mercies today and offer him the vacancy of a wounded, healing heart.
Isaiah 49:16

¹⁶ See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; 

Distortions

I was in the attic the other night searching in vain for the box of white Christmas tree lights. I never did find them, much to my frustration. In that frustrating process two great things happened.
1. I discovered that the netted lights purchased for shrubs that no longer exist in my front yard can be draped nicely around a Christmas tree. In fact, I like it so much, I'm stickin' with that method.
2. I discovered pictures I'd tucked away in a box of college memorabilia.

The pictures I found were of the Miss Humble Pageant 1984. I am a member of a lost generation.  I willingly admit I am one of those little girls who thought being Miss America would be the pinnacle of living. I took Bert Parks to heart. Carol and I watched every September on a Saturday night, pink sponge rollers in our hair. There wasn't a set of curved stairs or a stage that I didn't practice holding my presentation bouquet of roses and waving the other hand to an adoring crowd. In my best moments, I'd hold my crown in place with the free hand and with exaggerated lips tell my fans and the judges, "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Some people knew sports facts. I knew pageant facts. Although I had heard rumors about what was necessary to win titles, I, in my naïveté, entered my one and only local pageant. I was Miss Deerbrook Mall: "Lori Hudgins, a 19 year old sophomore at Baylor University studying social work."

Like all good pageant contestants, I starved myself silly through Christmas holidays, no less, to be as skinny as possible. I ran miles a day and hated every minute of the running. I can remember thinking that I wanted to be 10 pounds lighter and an inch taller. If I won. I'd lose the weight before the state pageant. The inch in height? Higher heels would create the illusion.

When we got together for the first rehearsal, I knew I wasn't going to win. It looked obvious to me who was being groomed for the crown. Nonetheless, I enjoyed my pageant experience. Even with such a different world view now, I have no regrets. I'm glad I made a leap at a dream. Pretty sure, even then, that when I answered the fill in the blank question, "A woman's place is...." "--in the home", that answer sealed the deal against me. I believed it with all my heart. At least I was true to my limited views, I guess. A better answer was on the back of my tongue, "Changing." And how relieved I am that the more thorough answer is true. Because now I'm glad we get to make a choice.

The pictures brought back memories of the event, my answers, Robby choreographing my movements while singing "Someone to Watch Over Me" in my living room, and odd images of taped up boobs, glue on the backs of swimsuits, and vaseline on teeth. Much more, though, I was struck with what my body looked like in that red one piece swimsuit. How could I ever have thought I should lose another ten pounds? I had no idea what I looked like. It would have never occurred to me that I had a beautiful body. After all, Kim had bigger boobs, Ann's legs were longer and leaner, and I'd never have that long neck like Beth.

The photos were aging so I decided to scan them onto my computer. Once scanned, the photos made me lose what looked like about another inch in height and a gain of probably 10 pounds. I may have recovered from a terrible eating disorder, but I'm not crazy. No point in cataloging an image that was inaccurate. That's when my best thoughts started churning.

Maybe I do hang on to a little piece of crazy since I didn't want to archive an inaccurate image. And yet, haven't I held on to a life long inaccuracy of what I looked like? Who saw me accurately? It would probably be true that my ex-boyfriend and the one I had my eye on at that time could have chimed in easily that I looked pretty good. Maybe my parents, my roommates could see what I couldn't. I believe that GOD could see me with absolute accuracy. Even more, HE saw the insecurity, the judgmental spirit, the wounds within that I worked so feverishly to hide from everyone around me.


HE knew what the 46 year old Lori would look like and be like. HE knew I'd make choices that would require a pant size large enough that my whole freakin' 19 year old body would fit into one leg. HE knew the deep furrow that would settle between my eyebrows during my 40's, my divorce wrinkle. HE also knew I'd work diligently alongside Him to heal wounds, become more loving, less judgmental and insecure.

Here's the utterly astonishing truth, HE loved 19 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as she was. He loves 46 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as I am. And most comforting to me is that HE will love 73 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as she will be too. I can distort what I look like and who I am, both in the positive and the negative. God, however, sees truth at all times and loves anyway. HE went to a great deal of trouble to make sure that I get to share life with Him. How grateful I am this Christmas for all HE did to make a way for "this little lamb, who's lost in the wood." HE is someone who, with perfection, has watched over me.

Can I admit two things? 

1. Even after my admission of a grain of crazy thinking, I almost didn't post these pictures.
2. When linking up the clip, I cried when I heard Bert Parks sing . (And practiced my wave--wrist, wrist, elbow, elbow.)